


The Blackhand's Apprentice

by JaydenJustice



Category: Thief (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Gaming, Video & Computer Games
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2018-03-17 13:45:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3531485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaydenJustice/pseuds/JaydenJustice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Garrett pays Emerine (original character) a visit before setting out for the evening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Blackhand's Apprentice

**Author's Note:**

> Work in progress.
> 
> While playing "Thief," there was one house that Garrett entered where he mentioned a girl in her cage. I'll go back to find the actual dialogue. But I was inspired by this. I wanted to write about that girl and why she was caged. And I wanted Garrett to be the one to free her. ;)

I slid the window open as quietly as I could. The cool night air hit my cheeks and I breathed in deep. I unlaced my bodice and let my dress slump to the floor in a heap, leaving me in nothing but a white camisole and bloomers. I stepped over the windowsill onto the cold shingles just outside. I shut the window, placing a rock to brace it from closing completely. The moist breeze against my bare legs and arms instilled in me a sense of freedom that could only come after wearing a too-tight dress that weighed half as much as I do all day. I tiptoed along the roof, sparing a glance at the street to make sure no one below had spotted me.

Up on top of our house, just above my bedroom window, an overhang jutted out from between two shingled peaks. I planted myself there now and let one leg dangle off the side. I turned my face to the wind and unbraided my hair to let it hang loose. It reached all the way down my back, a cascade of wild waves that had a mind of its own. My mother had always hated my unruly hair. Even the color irritated her. “Much too dark for a lady,” she claimed. My refusal to lighten it infuriated her. But that only made me love my hair that much more.

A rumble out over the water promised a storm. I inhaled the rain-scented air as I opened my pouch and pulled out a pipe and a sack of tobacco. I packed the pipe and lit it with a match, puffing on the end to bring the embers to life. After a deep draw, I sat back and rested my forearm on a bent knee.

"Ever the lady," a low voice said behind me.

I knew the voice. A smile tugged at my lips.

"I never claimed to be," I said.

I turned my head to regard the man perched on the peak of the roof, a mask and hood covering all but his eyes. Dressed in black from head to toe, he hopped onto my platform, his steps silent. He pulled the mask down around his neck to reveal dark stubble and several jagged scars.

"How's your head?" I asked him.

He drew his eyebrows together and a crease formed between them. He didn't answer, but pressed his lips together into a tight line.

 _Touchy pride, this one._ Though I supposed being taken by surprise and knocked over the head by a young woman would rankle any thief who claimed mastery.

"So," I said. "The night is young, Mister Blackhand. What exciting things do you have planned for this evening?"

He glanced sidelong at me and his eyes twinkled. "I hear the Ballestros' gardens are wonderful this time of year."

"Is that your attempt to goad me?" I narrowed my eyes. "Threatening to rob my fiance?"

He smirked.

"Well," I said. " _Lord_ Ballestros the Younger is filthy."

"Filthy rich," he said.

"That, too. He could stand to lose a few coins," I said. “Might humble him a bit.”

We sat in silence for a few moments while the rumbling in the sky grew louder. As I puffed on my pipe and the thief scanned the streets, I saw a figure in the distance approaching. He strolled onto my street, tapping the tip of a black umbrella on the stone as if it were a walking stick. The brown tweed suit and obnoxious miniature top hat announced his identity as surely as if he had called out his own name.

"Speak of the devil," the thief murmured. "Anthony Ballestros. Coming for a late-night visit with his _lady_." His smirk deepened.

I made a sound of disgust deep in my throat, resisting the urge to smack him.

As Anthony ascended the steps to my front door, I pressed my index finger to my lips and gave the Blackhand a warning look. A knock sounded below us. I pulled my leg up and out of sight, pressing back against the wall. I heard my father answer the door and admit Anthony. A moment later, they were in my bedroom. I could hear their voices drifting up from the partially-opened window. My father didn’t sound too happy. The politeness in his tone melted away, and the fading string of obscenities that followed put a grin on my face. Not long after that, Anthony appeared on the street again. He wasn’t strolling anymore. He had a stiff-legged gait that made it seem like he needed to find a toilet. Fast.

I picked a pebble out of the gravel on the overhang, aimed, and flicked it into the air. The rock hit a wooden sign with an echoing _thock_ just as Anthony passed by. He yelped, jumping back and placing a hand on his chest.

“Nice shot,” the thief said with a chuckle.

“Go,” I said. “Do your thieving, Mister Blackhand. Bring me a souvenir.”

“I think I can manage that,” he said. He stood and dusted off his hands.

And then he was gone. I saw him a moment later on the next building over. How he moved like that, I’ll never know. Fascination overcame me as I watched him traverse the rooftops. Somehow, I knew I could see him only because he let me. The man was a shadow. What must it be like to have the freedom he had?

I'd never know. Sure, I could climb atop my cage every now and then to sing a few notes. But the freedom my father claimed I had was artificial. The fact that I couldn't choose my own husband was evidence enough. I could leave, I suppose. But where would I go? I had no money to speak of, no resources to gather, and no friends to assist me. And if I was caught wandering the streets – again – the guards would simply drag me back home and collect a fat purse from my father for doing so.

I was kidding myself, of course. Trying to convince myself I was trapped. If my heart was truly set on escape, there were ways of making it so. It pained me to admit, even to myself, that I'd already reluctantly accepted my life and the paved, straight-shot, well-lit path down which I was headed.

Besides, Anthony really wasn't _all_ bad. Just _mostly_ bad. Dull and predictable. Simplistic, with a love of wealth that matched his father's. His interest in me seemed to be sincere though, and he'd promised me a certain amount of freedom once we were married. It was a step up from my current situation, at least. A baby step, but it would be a change.

That Blackhand had better realize how lucky he was.

The first drops of rain pattered on the roof around me, spilling from the swollen clouds that blackened the sky. I tipped my head back and let it cool my face. I had a decision to make. It wasn't likely my father had gone off to bed. I could see him in my mind now, sitting in the cushioned chair in the corner of my room with a book. Waiting for my return, as he always did when I ran off. Maybe I should clobber _him_ over the head with a candlestick.

I decided to wait for my father to leave or fall asleep, then crawl into bed. He'd fallen asleep many times before while waiting for me in that chair. The rain had already soaked through my underclothes and had me shivering by the time I heard his snore cutting through the storm. I climbed back through my window and tiptoed past him to the bathroom, where I cleaned my teeth and changed into dry clothes.

When I came out, I covered my father up with a blanket. He stirred but didn't wake, and I felt a twinge of guilt deep in my gut. Despite his anger, I knew he worried about me when I disappeared. Before I tucked down into bed, I scribbled a quick note for him.

_I'm sorry, father._

_I had a headache and went for a walk down by the harbor for some fresh air._

A lie, but apologies often went over well with father. I placed the note atop the book in his lap where he would be sure to find it, then wriggled down into my warm blankets.

***

The next morning I woke with a _real_ headache. It was still raining, and though it was morning the window remained dark. It would be another full day of rain. I knew I'd slept, but I didn't really feel replenished. My dreams had been anxious and restless. Most of them had already faded away. There was one that stuck with me, however. One that I could still see vividly in my mind.

I'd been a bird, tiny and red, chirping and batting my wings fruitlessly against the bars of a cage that sat on a table in the center of a dark room. I couldn't see beyond the table, but I could hear rustling, the rhythmic beating of wings. A crow cawed and landed on the edge of the table. A soft white light, like moonlight, filtered through the room, surrounding the huge bird with a nimbus-like glow. It towered over me, glossy and black, with something silver caught in its beak. As it walked toward me, it peered through the bars of my cage to regard me with a kind of lazy interest. I flitted to the far end of my cage and trembled.

The crow didn't try to peck me through the bars, as I'd expected. Instead, it dropped something on the table with an echoing _clank_. It dipped its head and nudged the glinting object toward the edge of my cage. Curiosity rose above my fear and I hopped closer.

It was a large key tied with a black ribbon.

The crow tilted its head and I peeped in surprise. Its right eye shone with an ethereal blue glow. It stepped to the far edge of the table, its claws clicking against the wood, and flew away with a flutter.

That's when I'd woken up with a pounding head and a heartbeat that simply wouldn't calm down. A troubling dream, filled with a warring mixture of despair and hope that I couldn't explain.

There was no question in my mind who the crow represented. The Blackhand, whose name I had yet to learn. One of his most prominent features was a single blue eye which seemed to glow when the light hit him just right. Trying to fathom what the dream meant only made my headache worse.

I sighed and sat upright, glad to see that the chair was occupied only by a folded blanket. The note was still there. I yawned and padded over, surprised to see that there was something else written there in my father's handwriting.

 _Come see me at the bank this afternoon_.

My heart sank. Was this to be a public scolding, then? Or – dare I hope? – perhaps my father would go easy on me because I apologized. Either way, I had to go see him. The man was doing all he could to build us a better life, and I hadn't exactly been making it easy on him of late.

A loud rumble outside stirred my spirit. At least it was still raining. I had always been a lover of storms. The type to throw open the windows at the first hint of thunder. I did so now to let in the cool, wet breeze, and something sat there on my windowsill.

I picked up the flat black box and ran my fingertips over its velvety surface. Had my father left this for me? If so, why on the windowsill and not on the nightstand? I chuckled. He _knew_ I used the window to get out. He must be trying to guilt me into staying put.

I opened the box and my eyebrows shot up as high as they would go. Nestled inside was a delicate golden chain with an oblong pendant. I pinched the chain between my thumb and forefinger and lifted the necklace out to inspect it. When I saw the charm that dangled off the end, I gasped.

It was a golden cage with a tiny bird-shaped ruby inside.

The skin on my arms crawled. After my dream the night before, the necklace's appearance was eerie. Some sort of omen?

I picked up the box, intending to put the necklace away, when I noticed something tucked up into the lid. It was a note, torn and folded to fit within the box. My hands shook as I opened it. Not my father's handwriting. It was dark and bold without flourish or embellishment.

_Your souvenir, My Lady._

It was signed "Garrett."

My souvenir. The Blackhand.


End file.
